Baerte were illegal in Francoist Spain

Already at the age of 18 Nazim Hikmet, born in Saloniki in 1902, was persecuted for his poems, as they dealt with the contradictions between the disenfranchised and appropriated. In 1920 he joined the Anatolian resistance, became a member of the illegal Communist Party of Turkey in 1923 and studied from 1922-1925 at the "University of the Peoples of the Orient" in Moscow, where he also held the wake on Lenin's coffin. After his return to Turkey in 1925, he lived illegally, had to emigrate again to the USSR and was sentenced to 15 years in prison in absentia. In 1928, after he returned home again, he was in dungeons there.

He lived in freedom for only a few years, 12 of them in exile. The prisons ruined his body: as a result, he suffered from diseases of the kidneys, eyes, heart, liver, and insomnia.

Due to press campaigns, under pressure from intellectuals such as Picasso, Aragon, Sartre, Neruda, Brecht and others, after solidarity campaigns all over the world and after using the last desperate means that remained in his dungeon: the hunger strike, he was pardoned in 1950. When he was drafted into the military in 1951, at the age of 49, he left Turkey and never saw her again.

In further years of emigration he was actively committed to peace and received the Lenin Peace Prize. "In short, comrades / should I perish from grief in Berlin today / I can say that I lived as a person." With these verses he concluded his "autobiography" in Berlin on September 1, 1961. He died a year later in Moscow.

He was the poet who managed to take his own view of the world to a higher level. It is a classic and today.


When the news of his death came, I was 19 years old and a member of the Labor Party of Turkey. We couldn't mourn. The black clouds of swords from the Mussolini paragraphs hung in front of our windows. His poems were banned under these paragraphs in the Turkish penal code - for almost 30 years. Back then.

In 1965 there was a renaissance in Turkish-Soviet relations. A delegation with a considerable train of journalists was in Moscow. Shortly thereafter, a left-Kemalist weekly called YÖN published a couple of hikmet poems.

There were no trials. Further publications of Nazim Hikmet poetry followed, mostly about love and longing. And in these years the complete works of Nazim appeared in Sofia in seven volumes. Publishers went on trips to Bulgaria and smuggled them in. Hikmet books flooded the market. His pieces were performed and attracted a large number of audiences.

Hikmet's verses influenced the '68 more than any other revolutionary theory. Because they are inherently active, everyday events, the course of which comes to a head while reading, inspires the reader and moves him to action.

The main element of his lyrics is unshakable optimism, the flowering dream of a happy morning for everyone. His rhythmic, polyphonic, self and worldly verses became a weapon of the young rebels. His work of the aesthetic word can be interpreted as the dialectical harmony of an entire orchestra that embraces his whole person: “I, a person. / I, the Turkish poet Nazim Hikmet, I / From head to toe conviction, / From head to toe fight , Longing and hope. "

Born into a high-ranking family, he could have lived a life of convenience. But he went the way of resistance, experienced all the pain a person can ever experience. However, his willpower could not be broken - even if he was isolated from the world and human voices in a dark cell.

In the foreword to one of his books, he notes: “The author of this book is a simple Turkish poet who is proud to have devoted his brain, his heart and his whole life to his people. On the other hand, this poet extolled the struggles of every people for national independence, social justice and peace in his poems, regardless of their name, geographical location, race and nationality. He has always felt the victories of these peoples as victories of his own people, their defeats as defeats of his own people and their joys and sorrows as joys and sorrows of his own people. "

He was a true cosmopolitan. Even in situations of severe defeat he finds words and images in which he conjures up the future and expresses his trust in the power of life, committed reason, in the power of that wind that Jannis Ritsos in his cycle of verses “The Neighborhoods of the World "Proclaims:

“Ah, hurry up Mayakovsky, that we may announce this wind!

Hurry up Sikelianos, hurry up Aragon, hurry up Neruda

Hurry up Nazim Hikmet that we sing this wind together. "*

* “The neighborhoods of the world” wrote Jannis Ritsos, born May 1, 1909, a fighter in the Greek people's liberation movement until 1944 and on the side of the partisans during the civil war from 1947 to 1949, on the concentration camp islands of Makronissos, Jaros, Ai-Stratis where he was imprisoned until 1952. He was also deported by the Colonel Junta between 1967 and 1974 to Leros and Samos. Alongside Mayakovsky, Lorca, Neruda, Hikmet, Brecht and Aragon, Jannis Ritsos is recognized internationally - with the honorary title of “People's Poet”.


"There is no second Nazim in the poem of the century" (Pablo Neruda, 1963)

Nazim Hikmet wrote poems, short stories, plays, novels, fairy tales, and reviews. Since he was of the opinion that “the new epoch needed a new narrative form”, he always turned away from the divan poetry (= courtly poetry) that had been valid in Turkish poetry until then. He proclaimed the free realistic line instead of the metric verse and courtly aruz, the origins of which lay in Persian and Arabic poetry of the Middle Ages.

The themes of his works encompass all levels of human life, both private and social. His verses have been translated into over fifty languages. His most important works are:

835 lines (1929), Letters to Taranta Babu (1935), The Epic of Sheikh Bedreddin (1937), People Lands Switching (1951), In that year 1941 (1961), Benerji committed suicide, The epic of national liberation, The legend of one Love -Ferhat ile Schirin, German fascism and racism (essay) ...


Right now his verses manifest the hope of bread and freedom. Because they “did not describe the room” emphasizes the British author John Berger in his daily notes on the 100th birthday of Nazim Hikmet in “Frankfurter Rundschau” of January 12, 2002, “they came through it, they crossed mountains. They also talked about doing. They told of doubt, loneliness, loss, grief, but these feelings were followed by actions instead of being a substitute for the action. Space and action go hand in hand. Their antithesis is prison, and in Turkish prisons Hikmet wrote half his life's work as a political prisoner. ... Prisoners everywhere have always dreamed of the great escape, but Hikmet's poetry did not. Before it began, his poetry brought prison as a tiny dot on the map of the world. "

John Berger continues his impressions from the fictional encounter with the great poet of his century:

“I want to ask you about the time we are living in today. Much of what you believed was happening in history, or believed was supposed to happen in it, has proven to be illusions. Socialism as you imagined it will not be built anywhere. Corporate capitalism is advancing unhindered - albeit increasingly controversial and despite the fact that the Twin Towers have been brought down. The crowded world is getting poorer every year. Where is the blue sky today that you saw with Dino?

Yes, the hopes, you counter, are in tatters, but what does that change? Justice is still a one-word prayer as Ziggy Marley sings in your time now. The whole story is about hopes that are nurtured, lost, renewed. And with new hopes come new theories. But for the overcrowded, for those who have little or nothing besides courage and love at times, hope is different. Then hope is something to bite at, something to shove between your teeth. Do not forget that. Be a realist. With hope between your teeth comes the strength to carry on, even when the tiredness does not subside, the strength comes, if necessary, not to scream at the wrong moment, above all the strength not to cry. A person with hope between their teeth is a brother or sister who commands respect. Those with no hope in the real world are doomed to be alone. At best, they can only offer pity. And whether these hopes between the teeth are fresh or in tatters makes little difference when it comes to surviving the nights and thinking about a new day. "


Nazim is widely considered to be the greatest master of Turkish poetry in Turkish society. Undeniable: He is one of the world-class poets of the 20th century.

His anti-Semitic-racist, Islamist-godly-minded envious and arch-enemies do not stop polluting him. They accuse him of treason. In order to maintain this, they look for Jewish traces in his genealogical table (Sephardi, Sephardim - Sabatay) and lead a denunciation debate about his origins.

Nazim's maternal grandfather, Mustafa Celaleddin Pascha, is from Poland. Konstantin Borjenski, a nobleman. After the defeat in the uprising against Austria and Russia in 1848, he first fled to Paris, from there to Istanbul, converted to Islam and rose to the paschal title. He became known not only as a soldier, but also as the originator of Turkish studies. In his book "Les Turcs Anciens et Modernes" he tried to awaken the national consciousness of the Turks, whom he saw as the real founders of civilization.

Another grandfather Mehmet Ali Pascha is said to come from Prussia. Karl Detrois. His paternal grandfather, Nazim Pasha, was a poet. His father was also in the service of the Sublime Porte and served as consul in Germany.


In the spring of 1992, the Saarland ecological educational institute (today: Heinrich Böll Foundation) organized a lecture with the Islamist publicist Abdurrahman Dilipak, who began his remarks with the verses of Nazim Hikmet.

His aim was to show the audience how open-minded the postmodern postulants of the Sharia are. He probably assumed that those present were well-known to the Turkish poet Nazim Hikmet.

But the truth is quite different. Nazim Hikmet never really arrived in Germany, even now, at most as an oriental poet. Even after UNESCO dedicated the year 2002 to him on the occasion of his 100th birthday. Apart from exceptions in the GDR, his works were not translated properly, that is, professionally, into German.

In the seventies of the last century I looked in the window of a bookstore in a small French provincial town and saw Nazim Hikmet twice.

Shortly afterwards, I began translating Nazim Hikmet poems into German. I turned to various publishers to get them published in a volume. The answer: You don't make books by unknown foreign authors.

Without the voluntary work of a few Turks, the level of awareness of Nazim Hikmet would not have reached today's level. But these are translations that are based on school German. With the exception of the volume "Ich Liebe mein Land", whose publisher is strangely unknown and from which the following two poems were taken:


We come a long way
very far away ...
We still have
the buzzing of the slingshots in the ear.
The borders of the mountain wastelands and forests,
lined with bloody animal skeletons,
filled with the neighing of wild stallions,
are the end of the way we came
Yet fertile
like the heavy pregnant body
a broad-hipped young mother,
is the one that sways in our drinking tubs

We come a long way.
The leather of our boots
smells like burnt meat.
from the echo of our steps,
the bloody, dark years rise
like winged primal animals
in the air.
And flames in the darkness
the tense arm of our leader
like a fiery arrow ...

We come a long way
very far away ...
The bond with the distant past
we did not lose
our inheritance still calls us
the ax that fell on Bedreddin's neck,
back to memory.
We were in Ankara at the Craftsmen's Brotherhood,
we know which teacher will please
we offered the hairy chest to the sultan's armies ...

We come a long way
and wear as a flame chandelier
Galileo's round skull like a revolving globe
on our hands.
On our eagle noses
finds the glasses
of the materialistic glass cutter Spinoza
their worthy place.

We come a long way
very far away ...
And the time will come
we set our hair on fire
and put a fire in the house of darkness.
We smash with the heads of the children
the darkness wall ...
And those who come after us should never again
see through iron bars but from hanging gardens
the spring mornings, the summer nights
in the country.

Nazim Hikmet

German by Annemarie Bostroem
From: "I love my country"

Song of the sun drinkers

This is the song
the sun drinker,
those made from earthen bowls
Drink sun!
This is a braid
a flaming head,
which flickers and blazes
like a torch, bloody and red,
over the brown foreheads
of naked heroes
with copper feet!

I saw those heroes too
I too embraced this creature
I also stomped with all of them
over the bridge to the sun!
I also drank the sun from earthen bowls,
I also sang the song!

Our heart beat fast
from Earth.
We stretched and broke
the fire-maned lion's jaws.
We climbed in leap
the lightning-charged storm!
Eagle breaking away from the rock
with rock avalanches,
flap their sun-gilded wings.
Flaming riders
swing the whips
and pull the foaming horses by the reins.

The storm breaks
up to the sun!
We conquer the sun's course
and conquer the sun in chorus!

In our train
we can't use any
those on the chains of the tears of wife and child
are tied up!
There is no place with us for those
which is in the tank
crawl into their hearts!
See in this fire
that falls from the sun
burn millions of red hearts
everywhere in the world!
From the cage of the chest
tear your heart
throw it into this fire, that earthward
flows down on us from the sun.
Throw it to our hearts

The storm breaks
up to the sun!
We conquer the sun's course
and conquer the sun in chorus!

Our ancestors are fire, water, earth and iron.
Our wives suckle their children with the sun.
Our copper beards smell of earth.
Our palms are with fat sweat
the fields soaked.
Our joy is warm, like blood is hot,
like the young man's pillow
from the excitement of first love.
The grappling hooks of our ladders
let's throw at the stars
and step over the skull
of dead friends up to the sun!

The dead died fighting
sinking in sheaves of fire.
We don't have time
to mourn them!

The storm breaks
up to the sun!
We conquer the sun's course
and conquer the sun in unison!

The vineyards steam with the blood of the grapes,
screw the thick brick chimneys
smoking up.
Yells in front of us
our leader's voice.
How it reverberates!
Violence of this voice
blinds the eyes of the hungry wolves,
this violence
bans them there,
where you are!
Command my death!
In his voice we drink sun too,
we are intoxicated
he is intoxicated!

In the smoke
of the flaming horizons
chase the riders,
Shredding the heavens
with their lances!

The storm breaks
up to the sun!
We conquer the sun's course
and conquer the sun in chorus!

The earth is copper red
the copper sky is hot.
Sing the song of the sun drinkers
loud, wide,

Nazim Hikmet

German by Annemarie Bostroem
From: "I love my country"

Finally, two more poems by Nazim Hikmet:

Letter from Poland

Dearest, my maternal cousin, mother of my memed,
is one of our grandfathers
the Polish emigrant from 1848.
Because of this, maybe you resemble
the beautiful woman from Warsaw,
as if you were her twin
Because of this maybe I have
such a blonde mustache
I'm so tall
Our son's eyes are so north-blue
Perhaps for this reason the plane is reminiscent of here
to our levels
Or that's why this Polish song excites
the deep, half-bright water in me.
One of our grandfathers came from Poland,
the darkness of defeat in his eyes
dyed his hair with red blood.
Borjenski's sleepless nights
seem like mine.
Just like me, maybe he lost too
his sleep under a very wide tree.
Maybe he was delirious too,
to smell the scent of home with every breath
and the probability
never to see home again.

Translated from Turkish by Necati Mert



the flight is waiting for the Cuban ballet team
Prague Havana
She danced in socialist cities for six months
was like brightly colored birds screaming from the islands
in warmer seas
I couldn't get used to it
whenever the aircraft separates from the ground
I remember different types of accidents
especially when I buckle the belt

in pure blue we are
a young girl from Moscow sits next to me, a geologist
small and lovely and a drop of honey with heavenly eyes

Cuba is a little younger than the Urals, she says
two million years younger
but its subterranean riches are the treasure of the Thousand and One Nights as that of the Urals

under the earth I walk around the roots the bones bumped my head the minerals in heaps glow colorfully in the dark
ours are looking for oil in the Cuban soil at the bottom of the Atlantic, she says
the trephines pierce the bottom of the sea between the swaying plants and fish, goggle-eyed, pot-bellied, prickly fish poked the glass of my diving helmet
we'll find it she says Cuba can't be without oil we have to find it
they will find the oil, I am convinced, but how will Nataschachen endure the heat
I worked in Kazakhstan for two years, she says the heat was forty-five forty-eight degrees
in front of me the engineers from Baku Bruno Peschte Warsaw Beijing Weimar
Fidel Castro wants to pour steel like the rainfalls pouring with tropical suns
Fidel wants to free himself from the sugar prison
Europe is below us, but the Cuban ballet team set their clocks screaming for Havana time
they ran into the stone corridors of their houses
And I can't understand if we're chasing after the day
or the night
whether our life is getting longer
or shorter
I see we fly over the strip of European coasts
the strip in the foam
I see we're over the Atlantic
a strange feeling inside me
the first time this is my removal from my big floor

Sailing galleons swim racing on the ocean between the compass roses and mermaids who are bigger than themselves and the strange feeling in me is mixed with the call of the maps drawn on gazelle skin into the distance

the picture plane without a horizon
the blue turned dark purple
During the night our plane landed on a very small star on which a host of very cruel creatures rule with hooked hands and one eye on the tip of the head
that night our plane landed on Santa Maria Island after a six hour flight
Portuguese is spoken
I thought of Angola
Starting on the coffee plantations in San Salvador near Congo, the uprisings spread
every seventh week we killed thirty thousand of the animals next month we will kill another hundred thousand when the rain subsides
so spoke the officer Lanada from Portugal

when the moon rose our plane took off
Down in the middle of the sea, Santa Maria stayed with her hand on her chest as if petrified. The grief of a buoy with the paint that had long since peeled off is tossed to and fro in the moonlight in the Atlantic waters

I slept
I woke up
Everywhere the stars I don't know
and then at full speed the stars gray
the girls of the Cuban ballet team comb their hair, put make-up on their eyelids, their lips, and morning drunkenness asleep makes them mature in this tightly closed, narrow space with the ecstasy of a flower box

the sun was rising
below the depth changes from dark blue to light green
the coral islands stretch like terrifying snakes in a spiral on the glass-bellied brightness

the coasts of Cuba with its bays in sight
the bays lined up like silver basins
the waters of the Cuban bays are comfortable and can provide shelter for all ships swimming in all seas
on the same day on the same night
I am sure the island of Cuba is a paradise fruit in the basket of the Gulf of Mexico
There are no snakes in Cuba and its scorpions are not poisonous
there are also no wild animals if you don't count the crocodiles in the Zapata swamp
they are up to seven meters long and if you stand behind them and give them the stick, they are done for
and the spar groves in the cliffs of Cohimar
If you throw an orange seed into the sweaty ground of Cuba in the early morning you will find an orange garden in the evening

it is the story about the human child, about the youth, the hopes of the human child
others told the story more beautifully than me they will tell it more beautifully than me
Friend-foe there is no one left who did not hear the story

Batista was the serpent king's servant

In November 1956, 82 people from the ship Granma stepped into the sea below them Fidel
they disembarked in November 1956 from the ship Granma, which was creeping into the coast of Cuba, sunk into the water up to the belt area, holding their rifles above their heads and under the cannon and machine gun fire that suddenly opened at the same time, they went ashore and themselves from the headlights rummaged through like the police dogs and the voices surrender you are surrounded and the fat frogs trampling at lightning speed went into the swamps and sugar cane plantations and climbed up the hills behind the ornamental palms and coconut palms met on the mountain Sierra

12 of 82 survived among them Fidel
There were 12 people in November 56, including Fidel
There were 150 people in December 56, including Fidel
500 people were there in February 57, including Fidel
They became 1000 among them also Fidel
5000 they became Fidel among them
one million hundred million a whole humanity they have become among them also Fidel overthrew Batista in January 1959 and the 50,000 man army and the sugar cane millionaires both the locals and the Yankees and the tobacco and coffee millionaires both the locals and the Yankees and then the barracks and the guard buildings in front of the rotten corpses and the heroin wholesalers and the casinos and the ambassador of the United States of America and the air, sea and ground forces of the United States of America and the smell of carrion mixed with the heavy smell of flowers The smell of the United States of America dissolves in the air of Cuba

we are approaching Havana said the stewardess
the palms the palms screamed one
it seemed to me as if mother had screamed it
The Cuban ballet team beat around for joy on the cover glasses like giant butterflies
after a total of eighteen hours of flight we descended and landed on the ground not the concrete but the brightness
in the midst of the brightness I saw her hugged tightly with the brightness
three people they were two men two women
one with a beard
they were young
I couldn't tell which was white which hybrid was which black
I couldn't tell whether the bearded man was white, black or a hybrid
difficult to determine whether the woman was black and white or mixed race
so like her eyes and all of them in her eyes
not possible to separate the colors of their skins from each other
the blood and the skin are as mixed together under this fusing, spreading, kneading, scooping sun as the songs and dances
all three wore pale blue shirts and dark olive-green trousers
on their belts the pistols with finely chiseled handles in their hands mitrailleuses
and one of them had folded his cap and tucked it under his epaulet
I could not tell whether the white black or mixed race
later I ran into them at all possible hours of the day and night in all possible places, sometimes trucks full, sometimes one by one
once they were on guard outside the Palace of the Writers' Union
two girls aged fourteen
the girls of Cuba grow up early like our Anatolian ones
their mitrailleuses ready to fire
and their green caps slightly inclined towards their black eyebrows
once it was a negro with curly gray hair like a giant
and leaned against the door of the bank
and his mitrailleuse between his open legs on the floor
once she read my poems on television without removing his pistol from her belt
this the greatest actress in Cuba
We drove into Havana in a white Cadillac
This is the first time in my life that I am sitting in a car like this
it is not a car but an ocean
his millionaire fled to Miami
I thought of the Tsar's throne
at nineteen I sat on it in the Kremlin and let myself
take pictures he was wrapped

The heat sticks to my back like a skin sweater, sweaty and sticky
from the 24th floor of the hotel I look out over the city during the night
what I see is like a sea in which the sun shines
yellow, blue, violet, green fish shine spark after spark
and the giant beetles with white mother-of-pearl
and the rocks with the half-animal half-plants long fluffy red flowers
on the 24th floor of the hotel I will hear the city for the next time
she stood lost in the songs
the songs in the earth, the stone, the leaf
the songs like vibrating heat in the earth, the stone, the leaf
in the air like nitrogen and the like the songs
the songs the peel the flesh the core of the fruit
the scent of the flowers the songs
the songs Spain Arabia Africa
the songs in the eyes on the hips of women
the songs the warm hands of men
the songs the legs the waists the shoulders of the dancers
I take the elevator to the lobby
Peasant girls in the elevator from the village areas of Bayamo of the Oriente province
came to town to learn to sew
live in the apartments of the Hotel Habana Libre (Free Havana), on the walls of which the shadow of millionaires is left behind
the former name of the Hilton Hotel
It cost 24 million
in the elevator village girl from the province of Bursa to the villages of Ankara
what are you girls doing in Istanbul how did they allow you girls to stay at the Hilton
but Hilton is no longer Hilton they say they called him for a long time to the Free Istanbul
and put their henna-dyed hands on their mouths and laugh
The landlords also fled with Americans
and the lands
we shared them among us

in the hall I saw Ivanof Aleksey Vasilyevich
his leather jacket on his shoulders
the nagaika on the belt
Boots on the feet
with a long mustache of gold thread
tells the black guard under the picture of Castro how they stormed the Winter Palace in Petrograd
In truth, Aleksey Vasilyevich died in 1941 while defending Moscow
In 1941 Aleksey Vasilyevich died of his gray mustache covered in blood
it's snowing
Sledges drive past the snow, drawing lane after lane that cover the wooden floor of Tiverskoi Street
Alizade from the Caucasus entered the hall with his lezginka with his Persian fur cap, the silver-tipped cartridges on his chest and the still aching two wounds as a souvenir of Wrangel
with one going! he would start the Sheikh Shamil dance and the Havana girls would bite their fingers in their mouths
In truth, I saw Alizade getting old out of his two-colored Volga car in Baku three months ago
it was hard to recognize him
Delegates in the hall
those who arrived in Havana yesterday
from Argentina Chile Eguador Brazil Italy India Madagascar Finland Czechoslawakia
the Frenchman Jean-Pierre speaks to the delegate from Martinique
I know but Jean-Pierre died at the gates of Madrid by Hitler's tanks
but Jean-Pierre stands before me his face without wrinkles like an apple
and turned red too
maybe because of the cold
In that year 1922 the cold in Moscow was 27 degrees below zero
In 1961 the heat in Havana was 35 degrees above zero


I walk the streets of Havana
confuse the asphalt with the trees
difficult to distinguish the cars from the asphalt
the rain from the sun
the white clouds from the sparkling blue pools
I confuse women with fruits
the kindergartens with freedom
difficult to distinguish the freedom and the people of this city from each other
I confuse the mitrailleuses with the doors with and without pillars iron wood glass all large and small doors to streets with mitrailleuses mitrailleuses
I confuse the sandbag barricades with the Atlantic
difficult to see the dawn watching the phantoms of American aircraft carriers and to distinguish the barricades made of sandbags
I confuse the peasant mothers with the presidential palace
I confuse the monuments, statues, busts of Jóse Martin with the photos of Fidel, especially his lithographs
I confuse Fidel with the songs, the Internationale, the Cha-Cha-Cha, the Pacenger with Fidel
somos socialistas palante palante
I confuse a hundred thousand people who are standing in a row on one place, putting their hands on their backs, dancing rumba with Fidel
difficult to distinguish between Fidel and Havana
I meet Marx on the book covers between pineapple and mambo and meet Marx with his high beard, newly arrived from the Sierra Berg
I meet Lenin more often every day, I meet Lenin in the tiny red stars from the sunny walls and in the middle of Spanish
on the high wooden stand with his arm stretched forward he speaks on Red Square
between the Cuban flags Lenin
I meet Nikita in the rhymes of the songs
and I meet Kennedy with his artificial smooth shark teeth
I encounter the remains of wrapping paper nailed to this or that gate of the banks and factories
and Nacionalizado often written on them in red ink
and I meet farmers
on the right hand the title deeds of the lands and cooperative cards on the left hand
and as if they were in a dream
I meet some of the more than 50 million trees and ten thousand schools that the revolution built
I meet architects
I meet architects who come from the sun, the moon, the stars, or better said from a much, much more happily lived world, say from the center of the twenty-first century, and whose mustaches are sprouting
They build gardens and houses in such shapes, colors, and cosiness that people's eyes have not seen anywhere on earth to this day
the houses are not like the prefabricated cladding let's say that a fisherman's house is not a house but a jewel box is not similar to the other
that the architects of the socialist revolution had so many beautiful words that had to be said immediately for the workers, the peasants, the intellectuals in Cuba
and how they know how to transform heat into freshness and darkness into light
I meet workers
no one has walked her streets with such confidence since Havana became Havana
and I'm a little younger every day in Havana
every day my mouth loses the bitterness of the world a little more
every day the lines of my palms become a little softer
and every day I believe a little more that the woman thinks of me only of me in very distant places
and every day a little happier I go singing through the streets of Havana
somos socialistas palante palante

Started in Havana in the summer of 1961
written to the end in Moscow

Translated from Turkish by Necati Mert